


The Problem with Plans

by MaryRoyale



Series: Problem verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hermione Granger & Narcissa Malfoy friendship, Infertility, Witches Support Group, Women Supporting Women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:25:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryRoyale/pseuds/MaryRoyale
Summary: Hermione Granger always had a plan. Usually, she had several. Harry liked to tease her that she had earned a Mastery in Contingencies. There are always things that can't be foreseen--things that forced one to reevaluate and reconfigure one's plans. When Hermione discovers that Dolohov's curse has repercussions and consequences that reach far beyond anything she had expected it sends her reeling. Help and healing come in the most unlikely package of all.





	The Problem with Plans

“I beg your pardon... I... I don’t understand,” Hermione said slowly.

 

The thrum of her heart was so fast that she felt as though the Healer ought to be able to hear it. Her ears were ringing and it was as though she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

 

The Healer moved toward her with a sad, sympathetic smile and gently pushed her forward, forcing Hermione’s head between her knees.

 

“Just breathe with me, Miss Granger,” the Healer encouraged her. “In, one, two, three, and hold it. Now, out, one, two, three. And in again. Good. Very good, Miss Granger.”

 

Slowly, the Healer moved back from her and back to her chair.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered once she could, and received another sad, sympathetic smile.

 

“It’s quite alright, Miss Granger,” the Healer reassured her. “Many witches suffer from shock when they first... when they come to see me.”

 

“You’re stuck with all the hard luck cases?” Hermione asked with a grimace.

 

The Healer shook her head and grimaced herself. “Not exactly, but I am a specialist and I generally deal with witches who are having issues with their reproductive health.”

 

“And that’s my problem, is it?” Hermione murmured.

 

“I am so sorry, Miss Granger, but some of the Dark curses that your body received during the war... it’s damaged you in a number of ways,” The Healer began in a careful, calm voice.

 

“Damaged me?” Hermione repeated in a sharp voice. She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You mean like the fact that I get muscle spasms sometimes? It’s painful, but I can’t control it. I’m never quite certain how or why it occurs, but the Spell Damage Healers have said that it’s a side effect of the Cruciatus Curse.”

 

“That’s nerve damage, and they are correct. It is very common,” The Healer said. She threaded her fingers together in her lap. “What I meant was the curse you took as a Fifth Year at Hogwarts. While there is no visible scar, there was some deep tissue damage and some internal scarring. From the notes in your file, you received the best possible care, but they were only able to do so much.”

 

“So,” Hermione said quietly. Her lips twisted into a bitter facsimile of a smile. “That’s that then.”

 

“I’ve got some pamphlets, if you would like them. There’s a support group that meets once a month,” the Healer explained.

 

“A support group?” Hermione was surprised to hear something so Muggle come out of a St. Mungo Healer’s mouth.

 

The Healer nodded and gave her a nervous smile. “Yes, erm, unfortunately, it’s been very well attended since the war.”

 

“Yes, fine,” Hermione agreed more to stop the Healer from talking. She stood up and straightened her robes. “Just... just Owl it all.”

 

“I am sorry, Miss Granger,” The Healer said one last time.

 

Hermione turned to look at her with a tight, pained smile. “You didn’t curse me, did you? It’s not your fault.”

 

Quickly, she pulled open the door and slipped out of the room before the Healer could say anything more. Hermione’s sanity was hanging on by a thin, delicate strand. She could feel her eyes itch and burn with the need to cry. Her breath came in little pants as she fought to not hyperventilate in front of half of wizarding Britain. Why was St. Mungo’s so crowded?

 

Leaving the hospital was a blur. Hermione’s mind was all a-jumble and she couldn’t concentrate clearly. Without even realizing it, she was in front of her parents’ home. She moved around the back toward the kitchen.

 

“Hermione?” Her Mum wiped her hands off on a dish towel. “What a pleasant surprise, darling. We weren’t expecting you tonight, were we?”

 

In the middle of her childhood kitchen, Hermione broke down in loud, ugly sobs that wracked her frame. Her mother’s arms came round her and they sat on the cold linoleum together, her mum rocking her and whispering soothing nonsense into her hair.

 

“There, there, my darling,” Thea Granger murmured. “Mummy’s here.”

 

That brought on a fresh bout of weeping and her Mum went still.

 

“Hermione, what’s happened?” She asked quietly.

 

“Deep tissue damage,” Hermione managed to gasp out through shuddering sobs. “I’ll never... never...”

 

Thea pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and shoved it at Hermione. “Did you want to? I thought that was why you and Ron decided to call it quits.”

 

“Well, I wanted the _choice_ , didn’t I?” Hermione blew her nose loudly and wiped at her face.

 

Thea sighed and patted Hermione’s back. “Come on, I’ll fix us a cuppa.”

 

The cold linoleum had seeped through her clothes, and Hermione struggled to her feet. She staggered over to the table and plopped down into a chair at the kitchen table.

 

“My career’s going along really well since I transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione explained to the familiar wood grain of her mother’s table top. “There’s talk about me being a shoo-in for the Department Head in a few more years.”

 

“That’s wonderful news,” Thea said encouragingly as she pulled the tea things out of the cupboard.

 

“And it isn’t that I didn’t love Ron,” Hermione continued doggedly, knowing that if she didn’t talk about this now she likely never would. “I still do, as a matter of fact, it’s just... we don’t want the same things.”

 

“Which is why you called it off,” Thea added. She shook her head at Hermione. “You’re both so young, darling. I told you that a year ago, and it’s still true.”

 

“They do it differently,” Hermione said with a shrug. “They marry young. Children... children are important.”

 

“So what?” Thea turned to give Hermione a sharp look. “Since when have you done what everyone else did?”

 

“It isn’t that,” Hermione protested. She could feel tears welling up again and shook her head in frustration. “It isn’t _just_ that. It’s... I had plans. I was going to be the youngest Head of the DMLE in the last 100 years. I was going to get married.”

 

“You can still do all of that,” Thea retorted as she measured tea and set cups on the tray.

 

“I can do most of it, but marriage... in the wizarding world that means children.” Hermione’s finger tips traced the wood grain with the practice of thousands of mornings spent in this kitchen. When the delicate lines blurred before her eyes she blinked rapidly, determined not to cry again.

 

“So just keep a string of lovers, then,” Thea suggested with a smirk and a lascivious eyebrow waggle.

 

“Mum!” Hermione protested, her cheeks flooding with color. She sputtered helplessly for a moment before she covered her face with her hands. “The Daily Prophet would have a field day with that,” she muttered.

 

“Who says they need to know?” Thea countered. She frowned at her daughter. “I understand that you’re a sort of celebrity in your world, but you’re going to have to figure out a way to protect your private life. You’ll have to make your own way... your own rules.”

 

The enormity of what her mum was suggesting hit Hermione and she sagged in her seat. Thea carried the tray over to the table and set it down. The ritual of teatime took over as Thea set a cup in front of her, poured, and then placed a plate with shortbread in front of her.

 

“Mum... I don’t know if I can do that,” Hermione tried to argue.

 

“Of course you can,” Thea countered. She smirked at her daughter and took a sip of tea. “You’re Hermione Granger, after all.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Six weeks passed and Hermione ignored the cheerful pamphlets from St. Mungo’s sitting on her nightstand. Then Penelope Clearwater bounced into her office with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She turned, peered into the hall, and then shut Hermione’s door with a conspiratorial grin. Hermione sat back in her chair and wondered if Penelope had been hit by a stray hex.

 

“You’ll never guess,” Penelope gushed and then giggled.

 

“Guess what?” Hermione asked with a frown. Quickly, she tried to go through all of the office gossip she knew about, trying to determine what news Penelope had.

 

“Lisa’s pregnant,” Penelope said and then smiled at Hermione expectantly.

 

“Oh.” It was natural, of course. Lisa Turpin had married Terry Boot two years ago.

 

“We’ll need to look at caseloads and what-have-you,” Penelope continued.

 

The rest of whatever Penelope said passed in a blur. Hermione couldn’t have told you what was said if her life depended upon it.

That evening she went home and stared at the pamphlets on her nightstand. The flyer for the group therapy meeting was tasteful and discreet. Hermione stared at it for several long minutes.

 

“Right,” she muttered to herself. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I can do this.”

 

It was simple to find the room that was carefully labeled “Witches’ Group Therapy.” Hermione slipped into the room as quietly as possible. Standing in small groups and talking to one another were witches that Hermione didn’t recognize, for which she found herself pathetically grateful. How much more awful would it be to spill her secrets, to reveal all the broken, bloody, scarred bits of herself, to people she knew.

 

Someone moved and Hermione’s gaze zeroed in on a pale blonde chignon that rested above a slender neck. _Narcissa Malfoy_. Panic gripped her and she turned about to flee the room.

 

“Miss Granger.” Mrs. Malfoy greeted her, and Hermione froze.

 

Cringing against the wall, knowing that—from the heat of her skin—her face was a bright beet-red. She turned back to Mrs. Malfoy reluctantly, hunching over to protect herself from further humiliation.

 

Mrs. Malfoy stood completely still, and yet Hermione felt an air of uncertainty. She gave Hermione a brittle smile and crossed her arms over her chest, protectively cupping her elbows.

 

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione greeted her stiffly.

 

“I’m glad that you came,” Mrs. Malfoy said after a moment. She gave Hermione a considering look and a slight nod. “It helps. A bit.”

 

“I don’t think that I...,” Hermione trailed off and stared at the floor.

 

“The counselor is a Muggleborn witch,” Mrs. Malfoy offered. She seemed to be almost hugging herself. “She says... she says that what happens in group; stays in group.”

 

“And you all honour that?” Hermione asked, half-curious.

 

A half-shrug. “We have become Secret-Keepers for one another,” Mrs. Malfoy offered. She paused and one hand crept up to cup her neck. “It is... nice.”

 

Sitting in group therapy next to Narcissa Malfoy was the most surreal thing that had ever happened to Hermione. She tried to unobtrusively pinch herself, to see if she were perhaps dreaming, and flinched in pain. Not a dream then.

 

Not all of the witches suffered the exact same problems—but it was... _helpful_ to know that Hermione wasn’t alone; that other witches had to deal with similar issues. Hermione wondered, as she listened to one witch sob into her handkerchief, if she wasn’t better off. She didn’t have the dreadful, awful hope of getting pregnant, only to lose that hope when she miscarried. Hermione wouldn’t have to worry about the rollercoaster of hope and despair.

 

No one made her talk that first night. Perhaps the Muggleborn Healer knew that Hermione was a hairsbreadth away from bolting and never returning. Perhaps they realized that Hermione didn’t even _want_ to be there. Then again, she doubted that any of them did. Still, she had appreciated their quiet reticence.

 

It took three months and another ecstatically happy pregnant co-worker to make Hermione speak up in group.

 

“I’m not like most of you,” she said quietly during a lull. The group became silently expectant and Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. “There is no... no hope. I’ll never be able to...” She trailed off helplessly and glanced around at the rest of them who were watching her with solemn, wary expressions. “I won’t ever be a Mum,” she finished and she flushed when her voice cracked.

 

“There’s always adoption,” the Muggleborn counselor offered with an encouraging smile.

 

Hermione could feel her lip curl and she rolled her eyes in exasperation. “If I wanted to marry a Muggleborn or a half-blood wizard, that might work,” she snapped angry at herself and angry at the counselor for making her say out loud what all of the witches around her already knew.

 

_How dare they make her repeat their stupid, elitist worldviews as though they were her own_? Her hands clenched in to fists on her thighs and she took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

 

Mrs. Malfoy twitched next to her, and Hermione glanced in her direction, but she had already turned away. The other witches were all looking at their hands, every one of them too polite to mention why Hermione Granger, of all people, would be so upset about what a pureblood wizard might think.

 

That wasn’t fair to Ron, not really, but she was finding it difficult to be fair to anyone these days. She was just fine nursing her bitterness and her anger and her feelings of injustice. What Ron might or might not do in any given scenario wasn’t really her concern anymore, or at least, not in the way it might have been.

 

When group was over, and they were all gathering up their things and murmuring polite goodbyes to one another, Mrs. Malfoy hovered near Hermione. She sighed and looked up. Uncertainty was an unusual look on Mrs. Malfoy’s face. Normally, the most she really showed was cool disdain, polite interest, or calm serenity. The hesitation in her eyes made Hermione’s skin crawl and her wand hand itch.

 

“Perhaps you would care to have lunch with me?” Mrs. Malfoy suggested.

 

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione replied because no one, not even Hermione Granger, told Narcissa Malfoy ‘no.’ Well... at least not without a plan in place anyway.

 

The oh-so-proper server set down tiny, delicate plates of food that Hermione couldn’t identify on the sleekly elegant tables in the ridiculously posh café that Mrs. Malfoy had chosen. Hermione wasn’t quite certain what she was eating, but it tasted delicious. She followed Mrs. Malfoy’s cues on the silverware and nibbled at a bit of something that was utterly divine.

 

“There are forms of adoption that are acceptable, among purebloods,” Mrs. Malfoy said carefully after the server had set wee bowls of some kind of chilled soup in front of them and left as silently as he had come.

 

“Are they legal?” Hermione asked. She winced as soon as the words left her mouth. “I beg your pardon. That wasn’t well done of me at all. I’m sorry for the scene I made in group, and I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, but... there isn’t any need. Not anymore.”

 

Mrs. Malfoy took a careful, perfect spoonful of her soup and Hermione watched in silent envy for her grace and poise.

 

“Not now,” Mrs. Malfoy corrected her. She paused and looked Hermione over thoughtfully. “But perhaps, one day.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione agreed immediately. She had no desire to argue about her love life with Narcissa Malfoy in the middle of a swanky café in some high end side street of Diagon Alley.

 

Mrs. Malfoy’s lips twitched and she nodded her head at Hermione. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lunch became a semi-regular thing.

 

“Do you suppose it’s some kind of trick?” Hermione asked her mother with a worried frown.

 

“That some society matron is trying to take you under her wing?” Her mum demanded. She rolled her eyes at Hermione. “Yes, that’s how they always do it. Before you know it, they’ll have forced you to sign up for some kind of charity fundraiser.”

 

A dull flush spread up Hermione’s neck and cheeks. “I did,” she admitted in a small voice.

 

Thea laughed and shook her head at her daughter. “Perhaps she’s just trying to be kind?”

 

“Mum, it’s Narcissa _Malfoy_ ,” Hermione protested.

 

“Is there anyone in your world that you can ask?” Thea suggested. She shrugged helplessly and gave her daughter a sad smile. “I love that you are asking me, darling, but I don’t know this woman well enough to guess at her intentions. Do you know anyone who does?”

 

“Oh.” Hermione paused and turned to stare at her mum. “I think I do.”

 

Thea nodded at her daughter. “Well, there you are then.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Easier said than done.

 

While Harry had been named Teddy Lupin’s godfather, Hermione had received no such honors. There was no reason for her to interact with Andromeda Tonks, and it had taken some effort on Hermione’s part to obtain an invitation to the Tonks’ residence.

 

“Miss Granger.”

 

When Andromeda Tonks frowned and tilted her head just so there was a disturbing resemblance to her late sister. Hermione fought the urge to shiver and clenched her hands in her robes where Mrs. Tonks wouldn’t see.

 

“Mrs. Tonks,” Hermione greeted her with a shaky smile. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

 

For several long minutes Andromeda Tonks examined Hermione before she moved to the side and gestured with her hand that Hermione should enter. The Tonks residence was small and homely—a far cry from the stiff, elegant café that Mrs. Malfoy had dragged her to—but Mrs. Tonks held herself with the same painfully erect carriage.

 

Silence stretched out between them and Hermione fidgeted helplessly with her tea cup.

 

“Why did you come to see me, Miss Granger?” Mrs. Tonks finally asked.

 

At the same time, Hermione looked up and blurted out, “I can’t have children.”

 

Perhaps joining the group had helped. Hermione never would have spoken to anyone willingly about her condition before that. She would have walked on broken glass first. She still froze in horror, inwardly cringing at speaking about her private life to a near-stranger.

 

Mrs. Tonks blinked slowly. “I see.”

 

Hermione flushed and shifted in her seat, squirming with embarrassment.

 

“I… there’s a… your sister.” Hermione stumbled over her words.

 

Mrs. Tonks stiffened.

 

“What about my sister?” She asked in a cold, icy voice. Her gaze narrowed and she frowned at Hermione.

 

“She’s… she’s been very kind,” Hermione said in a small voice, hating how ridiculous it all sounded once she voiced it aloud.

 

Mrs. Tonks seemed to relax in her chair even though her posture did not falter.

 

“Narcissa has been kind to you.” Mrs. Tonks stated. She seemed to consider that for a moment.

 

“Yes, there’s a… St. Mungo’s has a… a group. It’s run by a Muggleborn Healer,” Hermione babbled helplessly, trying to explain.

 

“Narcissa goes to a support group run by a Muggleborn witch,” Mrs. Tonks said with an expression that Hermione couldn’t quite decipher. She paused and stared at Hermione. “And she’s been kind to you.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I… yes.”

 

“And you decided to come see me,” Mrs. Tonks continued. She frowned and tilted her head slightly. “Why?”

 

“My mother suggested it,” Hermione replied.

 

“I see.” Mrs. Tonks lips twitched.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione confessed.

 

“Bellatrix never wanted children.” Mrs. Tonks stared into her teacup. Hermione couldn’t quite control her flinch, and Mrs. Tonks’ fingers tightened on her cup. “I didn’t know what I wanted… all I knew was that I wanted it with Ted.”

 

“And Mrs. Malfoy?” Hermione asked quietly.

 

“Narcissa couldn’t wait to be a mother,” Mrs. Tonks replied. “She was counting down the days to her wedding to Lucius Malfoy even before I left.”

 

“I was going to wait,” Hermione offered. She twisted her hands in her lap. “I had plans, you see.”

 

“A baby?” Mrs. Tonks asked.

 

“Maybe,” Hermione replied. “I thought about it.”

 

“It’s difficult when one’s choices are taken from one,” Mrs. Tonks observed. She smiled faintly at Hermione. “I understand that more than you know.”

 

“She has invited me to lunch,” Hermione said with a sigh. She waved one hand in the air. “I’m on the refreshment committee for some fundraiser that benefits widows or orphans or something.”

 

Mrs. Tonks took a sip of her tea and watched Hermione over the rim of her cup.

 

“Cissa has taken you under her wing.” It was a calm, serene statement.

 

“What does that _mean_ though?” Hermione demanded, her frustration bleeding into her voice.

 

“Perhaps she felt sorry for you,” Mrs. Tonks said with a shrug.

 

Hermione frowned at her. “This is your sister we’re talking about,” Hermione retorted.

 

“True,” Mrs. Tonks agreed. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Miss Granger. I haven’t seen my sister in decades. However, I don’t think that she means you any harm, if that helps.”

 

_I don’t think that she means you any harm_ , wasn’t exactly the most ringing endorsement Hermione had ever heard, but it appeared that it was the best she was going to get. Apparently, Hermione was doomed to argue with Mrs. Selwyn about whether or not it was ‘ridiculous’ to offer vegetarian options at the upcoming charity fundraising event.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“This is supposed to be a dark chocolate fountain,” Hermione snapped in irritation. “Does this look like dark chocolate to you?”

 

“Mrs. Selwyn said that…,” the server began only to stop when Hermione glared at him.

 

“I don’t care what Mrs. Selwyn said,” Hermione said slowly and distinctly. “You were told dark chocolate. In our contract it says _dark chocolate_ , now make it dark chocolate.”

 

The server nodded rapidly, muttered apologies and then hurried over to the fountain. When Hermione got her hands on Iris Selwyn, the woman was going to regret trying to ruin this fundraiser. Hermione meanly hoped that Mrs. Malfoy would give Mrs. Selwyn her disappointed face, and then shuddered reflexively at the thought.

 

It was so odd that Narcissa Malfoy, wife and mother of feared Death Eaters, didn’t have to raise her voice or threaten to hex a person to have them cower in fear. All she had to do was heave a regretful little sigh and just _look_ at you with these sad, disappointed eyes. Hermione had never been the focus of that look, but she’d seen it used with great effect.

 

“Is everything all right, Miss Granger?” Mrs. Malfoy asked. Hermione jumped slightly and pasted on a quick smile before she turned around.

 

“Of course, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said brightly.

 

“You should take a break and enjoy the evening,” Mrs. Malfoy admonished with a faint smile.

“I will,” Hermione promised. Against her will, her eyes slide toward the now chocolate fountain and her lips tightened into a straight line. “I just… I want to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

 

“Of course,” Mrs. Malfoy agreed. “I remember my first event. I was a jittery bundle of nerves all evening. I’m certain that Lucius slipped a Draught of Peace into my champagne partway through the night.”

 

The image of a less-than-perfectly-composed Narcissa Malfoy was almost impossible to grasp. Hermione finally gave up and shook her head.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said with a faint smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t that Hermione had _hidden_ her relationship with Narcissa Malfoy. It was more that everyone else always had far more interesting, _more exciting_ things going on. Ginny’s career with the Holyhead Harpies had taken off with a bang and Hermione had listened patiently along with anyone else Ginny happened across. Harry was doing well in the Auror department and he always liked to pick Hermione’s brain when it came to his latest case. Even Ron liked to regale them all with stories about helping George at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, which usually involved Ron being an unwitting test subject for George’s latest recipe.

 

Hermione would have felt silly telling them about the fight she got into with a gala caterer about whether or not certain cooling charms could be used with shellfish. Most of the time she just told them what she was doing at the DMLE and left it at that.

 

“You should get out more,” Ron chided her gently. Hermione had stiffened at that.

 

“I do all right,” she muttered in protest.

 

“You could do better than all right,” Ron countered. “Brightest witch of your age, Order of Merlin winner, rising star of the DMLE. Blokes should be falling over themselves to ask you out.”

 

“I suppose,” Hermione agreed tightly.

 

“I just worry about you,” Ron sighed.

 

“Don’t,” Hermione told him. She sighed and patted his hand. “I appreciate it. I do… but you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

 

“I know you will,” Ron agreed with a reluctant air. “It’s just… you’re my best mates—you and Harry.”

 

_Best mates_. She expected the bitterness to flood her chest, but it didn’t. Maybe that therapy group was doing some good after all.

 

“So you pester Harry like this, do you?” Hermione asked Ron tartly.

 

“If I thought he was spending all his time at work and at home… yeah, I would,” Ron retorted. He scowled at Hermione. “I half-wish he would. You know who he took to the Leaky last Saturday?”

 

“Was there a gathering at the Leaky last Saturday?” Hermione asked in surprise. A worried frown flitted over Ron’s face.

 

“Yeah. I asked you to come by after the shop closed, but you never showed up,” he reminded her.

 

Right. Saturday. She had spent the entire day with Narcissa Malfoy comparing fabric swatches and deciding on centerpieces for the tables at an event to help fund research for a cure for Dragon Pox. It had been mind-numbingly boring, but Mrs. Malfoy had hinted that Hermione would be handling decorations all by herself at the next fundraiser.

 

_“It has to be simple, yet elegant,” Narcissa had explained as she frowned at two swatches that Hermione suspected might be the same colour. “If it’s too over-the-top, people won’t want to donate. They’ll assume we have plenty of money already. If it’s too dowdy, they’ll suspect we aren’t well-organized.”_

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. “So… who did Harry take?”

 

“Greengrass.” Ron’s lip curled disdainfully.

 

“Daphne or Astoria?” Hermione asked.

 

“Daphne,” Ron muttered. He shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

 

“Not really, no,” Hermione replied slowly.

 

As far as she knew, Daphne Greengrass was seeing Adrian Pucey. Mrs. Pucey and Mrs. Greengrass had been quietly smug about that at the last St. Mungo’s Foundation meeting Hermione had attended. There had been some subtle teasing and then Mrs. Malfoy had redirected everyone to a vaccination drive she wanted to schedule before September and Hogwarts.

 

“What was he thinking?” Ron continued with a scowl.

 

“Perhaps they’re friends?” Hermione suggested. Ron snorted at that.

 

“Friends? With a snake?” He scoffed and shook his head. “Merlin, I’d rather he was just shagging her.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Charming, Ronald.”

 

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron protested. “You don’t want to see him stuck with some Slytherin _forever_ , do you? Imagine what their _kids_ would be like!”

 

It was impossible to stop the way her chest constricted.

 

“I’d rather not,” she said quietly.

 

“Hermione?” Ron frowned and took her hand. “Did I say something wrong again?”

 

She smiled weakly and patted him again. “No, it’s fine. Just let me know the next time you have a get-together and I’ll be there.”

 

“Do you promise?” Ron eyed her skeptically.

 

“I promise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
